So Darkness I Became
by Verati
Summary: Welcome to the modern era. Sauron has finally recovered from his defeat thousands of years ago in Middle Earth, and he's trying to bring the old survivors of Melkor's service back together to free their master from the Void. Will this band of half-hearted, bickering immortals succeed against the might of Ulmo, Mandos, Tulkas, and Osse, the Valar Who Stayed?
1. Chapter 1 - Never Let It Go

It felt a lot like drowning.

There was the plunge: he was thrown down from a high place. He had a rush of panic as he fell. He scrabbled for purchase in every direction he could, but it was already too late; his enemies had won.

Then, there was confusion: it was hard to get his bearings. There was no oxygen to think, no point at which to take a breath and collect himself. He was sliding further, and there was no way to stop the inevitable darkness that was coming, darkness that had already come and swallowed him, and he was reduced to the efficacy and power of a starved animal. This stage lasted the longest, and he lacked the points of reference to understand at the time what that truly meant.

Lastly, there was calm: there came a point where clawing and fear lost their worth. He drifted through cold at the dark bottom of an endless lake, and he let himself watch distorted shapes flutter by above him in the world, entirely unaware of him. Slowly, he regained some measure of himself—_I don't feel like a king, though surely I was one._ Thoughts visited and left like drifting fish; occasionally he caught one, but most others he let go, the energy requirement too much to reach out and grab more.

There was something he wanted. Something about the stars playing silent sentinel over him brought a name back, because the two had always been at war, and he remembered to hate them in his fog; they spelled out doom for someone he had treasured more than all the world.

Eventually, he ached. He began to hunger again. With bloody claws and a will stronger than mithril, this wraith crawled out of some crack in the ice at the roof of the world into howling wind and darkness. The night saw him emerge with the rage and pain of desperation, and he knew that he wanted this person back, this treasure he longed for, to get revenge at the stars that quietly watched his helplessness for so long.

Sauron woke up in a hospital room. Pale morning sunlight softened the cool sterility of the room and glittered on the sink opposite his bed, on the unfamiliar instruments someone had left by his bedside, and he stirred and rubbed his head. _Hands_, he wondered. He glanced down at himself: when had he regained physical form? For that matter, where was he?

There were strange sounds outside. Curious, Sauron swung his feet to the cold floor and meticulously removed the IV needle from the side of his wrist. He stretched and walked over to the window.

He was in some kind of castle, he thought. His window faced a large parking lot and a road beyond it, and Sauron looked down at people getting out of cars, getting in them, walking with children to sliding glass doors in the castle that opened just for them. _No, not castle—_there were no fortifications and too much glass. Anything like this built for defense would have been worse than useless. Those things down there were some kind of transportation. The roads beyond looked better than anything he had ever seen, and he furrowed his eyebrows, wondering how long he'd been out, who had done this to the world, how few trees there were.

Granted, the lack of trees meant that his servants were possibly winning. On the other hand, everything he saw looked so…clean.

Somewhere behind him, the door opened, and he turned around; a middle-aged woman in a white coat entered the room with a clipboard and asked him a question.

Sauron frowned. "I have no idea what you just sai—ai—a," he coughed, the words breaking up in his parched throat, coming out in little more than a hoarse whisper.

The woman quickly strode over and picked up a plastic cup from the small bedside table and filled it. "Drikke."

Sauron drank. The water soothed his throat and gave his shaking hands something to hold, and let him escape for a moment from the shock realization of how much everything changed while he was gone. The woman gestured to the bed and reached for his arm. He shrugged away from it and sat down by himself.

The woman asked him something else as she stood above him—something he would never tolerate in his own day, but his last defeat at the hands of Atani made him cautiously accept this role for now—but he shook his head, the confusion on his face giving it away; whatever language she was speaking, it wasn't Sindarin, or Westron, or anything at all that he recognized. Was it some Eastern language? Not quite—it had a familiar cadence to it, though the words were all wrong.

Finally, the woman set a hand on her breast and said, "Anna."

She looked expectantly at Sauron, her clipboard held sideways against her hip. He didn't know what to say.

His voice sounded strangely hoarse and quiet to his own ears when he answered, "Mairon."

"Mairon." She smiled and made a few scratches on her clipboard with a style of pen he'd never seen. Everything was so foreign—it was a wonder and a terror at the same time, his critical mind wishing to know how all of these things worked. Even the little details like writing utensils were strange enough to mock his current understanding of their mechanics. A wave of unease crept slowly over him as he struggled to pull back the last things he remembered, and the thought of what his enemies would say if they saw him in such a state.

For the next few minutes, Sauron endured a very tiring exercise: allowing an Atani woman to look him over as a sick patient, as if she could fix what was wrong with him. He let his mind wander as she prodded him gently for responses, to which he replied as best he could guess how; it was an awkward game of grunts and hand signals. Sauron listened for words that appeared more than once; 'drikke' had been obvious, but now he wanted more useful language, commands to get him what he needed. He would not be helpless long in this new place, and the reassuring thought of his own intelligence was enough to give him patience.

The woman gestured for him to stay as she hooked his wrist back up to the IV—she would be back, she tried to tell him, and he nodded.

The second she was gone, he stood up again.

This time he went to the mirror; he had not seen himself in physical form for ages, and he was curious what his half-conscious essence had dressed itself in. He did not expect what he saw:

His hair was red—dark red, red like forge fire, like coals burning at the end of the night. It was long and brushed strong shoulders on a swimmer's frame, his body leanly muscled and flexible as a cat. His features were as he remembered them, delicate and precise, much like his natural temperament when he used to serve—he immediately shied away from that thought. His immediate goals were to get self-sufficient, and he would do so quickly, if only to put his current humiliating circumstances behind him.

It was not like being taken prisoner by Numenor. He'd reveled in their sickening delight, knowing that every act of pride would cost them later. He'd endured being mocked and degraded by choice. Whoever had him now was looking out for him. He had no control. This kindness and pity made his vulnerability truly upsetting.

He sat back down on the bed and looked around at all the strange letters in the room. He wouldn't get very far until he learned to communicate.

Wow…he really did lose the war, didn't he.

Sauron spent the next few days in hospital care, learning words and phrases from the nurses as they realized he wasn't insane, just foreign. When Anna asked him where he was from, he couldn't answer. When he managed to ask where he was, she said, "Norway."

That didn't sound like Beleriand or Middle Earth. He accepted these facts with the stoic silence of a man in exile.

"Does anyone know what language he's speaking?" the staff asked one another.

There was little to do in that time but learn to communicate. Mairon picked things up quickly, but he was oddly unfamiliar with technology. The staff wondered if their John Doe had some kind of memory loss—someone suggested trauma, and one strange anesthetist half-jokingly mentioned aliens. They did manage to convince Dr. Anna Hall to bring in a psychiatrist for an evaluation, to no avail. Sauron, upon learning what this man's profession was about, threw him bodily from his room and slammed the door, cursing in a language no one knew.

Eventually the hospital just gave up.

Sauron had been awake for less than a week; the afternoon drifted lazily by, his thoughts circling around words for confinement. How long would he be here? _Not long_, he decided. The hospital was outlasting its use. He could concede to stay and try to learn more, or he could take a chance beyond that parking lot, and he knew which he'd rather do.

Dr. Hall knocked.

"Maar arin." Sauron pulled his gown tighter around himself.

"Good morning," replied Dr. Hall. "How are you feeling?"

"I am good."

"Excellent." Sauron assumed that was another word for good. He let her look him over, somewhat bored with the routine without being able to ask what all she was doing. For all of a week, he'd learned only a handful of words, mostly to do with physical objects around the room and his state of being, assisted by childish expressions and hand signals.

"Okay, Mairon, I have some news for you. We can't exactly keep you here since you're recovered—I've done all I can to give you a few extra days, but without any kind of psychiatric issues all I can do is let you leave. Do you understand?"

"I go?" he asked.

She nodded.

Sauron looked relieved. "Good."

"Now wait a second." She held up her hand to stop him. "I have to fill out some paperwork I might need you to sign. I also have a few resources that can help you get back on your feet. Do you have any ID?"

Sauron blinked at her. _Of course_, she admitted to herself, _how can I expect him to understand all that when he can barely string a sentence together?_

"Okay," she said exasperatedly, "wait here." She left.

Sauron rolled his eyes and walked out.

He was done with this shit. If he wasn't a prisoner, he would figure it out himself. Basic things like food and water were secondary concerns to him—he needed to know more, gather some allies, see if there was anything in this age to salvage. He had goals to regain some of the dignity that he'd lost. He would not be hindered by a place full of healers and sick people. He was pissed, not sick.

So help his servants if he found any left alive.


	2. Chapter 2 - Tell A Friend

"Mairon…"

Sauron wondered why he'd given that name to the hospital staff, other than its relative obscurity. He never used it anymore. Only one person had called him that after he left Aman, and he was avoiding those memories as if they were Ungoliant.

"Mairon."

He knew that voice. Dark, warm fuzziness clouded his mind as he rolled over between soft sheets, the blankets heavy over him and his partner. The voice was more insistent the second time, but not alarmingly so. He found his body pressed against someone warm, powerful arms sliding over his softer skin.

Questing lips aggressively met his, and he let himself enjoy it. The heat radiating off his partner's body only grew as passion ignited in him, and Sauron's tongue intertwined with his partner's, was overwhelmed by him; hips pressed harder together and fingers slipped into Sauron's golden hair, hair that was red now.

"On your back."

Rough, calloused hands pressed Sauron's wrists against the pillow on either side of his head. The Maiar opened his eyes—a spill of dark hair hid iron grey eyes from him, but he knew that brow and the shape of his jaw, even in that dim light. Sauron shifted lazily against his weight—if his partner wanted it, he could work for it. His Vala loved excuses to be aggressive, anyway.

Teeth clamped down on his lower lip and Sauron tried to wriggle his wrists free, to no use. Melkor buried his face in the crook of his neck as Sauron arched his back and gasped.

Melkor ground their hips, tugging bare, sensitive skin in the process. He had Sauron pinned: aggressive, lustful eyes met bright golden ones, ones that held Melkor's despite plenty of reasons not to. In later years it was construed as resistance, but right then, in the earlier times (after Sauron had gained his trust and before things fell apart), that gaze was almost an oath—not to shy away from him, but to be there when no one else was.

Melkor saw it, and Melkor tested it. In bed and in battle, Sauron had to prove it every so often.

His dark Vala stretched Sauron's wrists higher above his head and pinned them under his left hand alone. With his right hand he brushed a strand of golden hair from Sauron's face, leaned close to his ear, and purred, "Hold still."

He reached across the bed to the candle on the nightstand and dipped his first two fingers in the candle wax. Then he smirked and slid those fingers across Sauron's nipples.

Sauron moaned and scratched at Melkor's hand.

"Who said you're going anywhere?" He taunted softly. Sauron breathed heavily, the rest of the room fading out of focus. It was just him and his master now. It was him and Melkor.

Sauron lifted his head up. He was on a train.

The last call for passengers was playing over the intercom. He was somewhere green: gently rolling English hills, an unmanned train station. He was brought to by an old couple who nudged his knee as they ambled past, locked in each other's elbow. Neither were aware of their slight to a once-dreaded dark lord. Sauron wiped a hand down his face and stood up: fuck his mind for being so distracted. This modern era was so full of meaningless distractions that his essence kept searching for something else to do. Well, it wasn't helping.

Sauron followed them out of the Grateley Station in a short, black trench coat and grey gloves that matched the scarf around his neck, and walked past the couple with his hands in his pockets, heading for the road.

The past few months had not been kind. He'd made it from Norway to the UK, after learning his way around in streets and hostels, learning more words from the refuse of the population. It was there he made easy friends—they were desperate, and he was an ear. By the steady accumulation of favors, he'd managed to scrape enough to leave the country, and once again, will and cunning led him toward his goals.

It was but one step in his unfinished plan, but once he achieved this, he'd have a better grasp of his situation.

Right then, Sauron had a rather long walk ahead of him to Grateley proper. Few birds were out, and the quiet morning yielded only the rustle of the trees along the two-lane Station Road, giving Sauron his first moments of peace since the hospital. On his right, he ran his fingers along the white fence that separated Station property from the street. On his left, Sauron noticed average, single-family homes with quiet yards, their occupants likely gone to work or staying in from the chill this time of day.

There was something nagging at the back of Sauron's mind, an emotion, but he turned his mind away from words like 'quiet' and from the emptiness between the rustling leaves.

"Do you need a ride?"

Sauron saw a small, red pickup pull up beside him. The man inside it was large and beefy, with a bald pate and watery blue eyes.

"I'm trying to get to Amesbury."

"Not if you're going that way." He reached over and unlocked the passenger door. "Hop in. I'm driving back now."

Once Sauron was seated (and buckled in, by order of the driver), the man took off, heading west to Cholderton.

"What's your name?"

Sauron was used to this by now. "Ron."

"Henry. Pleasure to meet you." He shoved his great hand across his girth toward Sauron as he drove. Sauron, uncomfortable, shook it. "Are you from Amesbury, Ron?"

"From Norway."

"I've never met a Ron from Norway. How long have you been here?"

Sauron's accent didn't sound far off when he spoke English. He'd spoken Norwegian more often since his return, but he'd learned both languages from natives while struggling to survive, and he liked to think that gave him some sort of advantage. "Only a few months. I've been living there for a while, and decided to return home."

"Home. That's a good word. My daughter went to study in Scotland last year, but she says she'll be happy to come home when she's graduated."

"Hm," said Sauron noncommittally.

The man could talk. He spent most of his time talking, some about the rotten weather coming in soon, most about the problems with traveling. As Sauron himself had dealt with the issues of airports and passes and that person sitting next to you whom you can't escape (particularly that one), he endured the chatter imagining what would happen if Gothmog treated this man like an orc who'd annoyed him.

He lost it, though, when he realized he'd been listening for a time about vacuum cleaners.

He set his hand on Henry's shoulder and willed power into his next words, "Shut up and drive."

It wasn't the same as possession. Henry's big body relaxed against the seat and his brows furrowed as he drove. He remained silent. Sauron sighed in relief and leaned back, wiping his face with his hand. "Praise be for his silence."

The driving went smoothly. Henry's mind was focused on the drive, and Sauron had him turn out his pockets ("Watch the road!"). He acquired nothing of interest, save an expensive pen and a pack of cigarettes. Sauron lit one up and blew smoke out of the window in the shape of Orthanc.

Take that, Mithrandir.

"Pity you didn't have one of these." Sauron took a smartphone from his pocket. He was still learning how to use it, but he finally knew how to play games and see local weather. Calling people was still something of a mystery, though. "Do you know how to use one?"

Henry shook his head, keeping his silence as he faced the road.

Sauron turned it over in his hands. "Well, that makes two of us."

The rest of the trip didn't stop at Amesbury. Sauron figured, while he still had a thrall, he could get to his actual destination without the annoyance of someone else. So they pulled up to Stonehenge that afternoon, his hopes up that he could use whatever energies were left in the area for his own rituals, until he caught a look at the hill from the car park below.

Tourists.

Sauron groaned and got out of the truck. He should've expected people here, considering that he'd read about Stonehenge in a magazine. It wasn't the old burial site before the stones as he'd remembered it. Someone had put these giant rocks here and then invited innocent Atani to go roaming all over the place. How was he supposed to do anything without attracting a metric ton of attention?

It didn't matter. This site was old, and it had seen more than he had in the past few thousand years. The plan would go forward regardless.

Sauron strode up the hill and ignored everyone who wasn't directly in his way. He stepped under the rope and touched the first stone.

There was a _click _and a small flash of light behind him. Shortly after, a loud voice carried over the hill—"Sir. _Sir_!"

Sauron turned and glared daggers at a freckle-faced youth running his way to stop him. The boy stopped, feeling the same pressure of will that the dark lord exerted over Henry, and watched as he walked across the circle to touch the next stone, and the next.

Tourists started looking his way as more and more English Heritage employees ran over, only to stop and watch in stunned silence. Sauron made the entire circuit and then walked to the center of the mound. He stared at everyone in impatient disgust.

Sauron's will seeped into the energy of the site, bringing it up for him to use. He was a sorcerer, after all, the like of which the world had not seen in millennia. Well, now he was ready. He would get his treasure back.

With this extra surge, he sent a message out across the earth. It wasn't powerful enough to disrupt life, was not a weapon of any kind. To those who were sensitive, it was merely a message:

_Guess who's back?_

It was the same concept as the mass text, he'd thought. He'd come up with it shortly after acquiring that inscrutable phone. He could use his will to gather allies, to communicate his return.

Elsewhere, in California, a heavyset drunk sat in a nest of drugs and tequila with a woman at his side. In his drunken haze he gazed at the television without worry or shame for his continually expanding beer gut.

Then the news came on. Some lunatic in the UK had fled from Stonehenge after possibly drugging the entire tourist population that day and several members of the Heritage society. Investigation was still ongoing.

Gothmog spat out his tequila and sat up, just as he remembered the message from several hours ago: _Guess who's back?_

Back again. Sauron's back. "GET ME MY PHONE." Tell everyone.

He knew exactly who else had heard it.


	3. Chapter 3 - A Gathering of Allies

Sauron didn't realize just how strong Atani were since his defeat.

As he fled the scene, nearly half a dozen police officers descended upon his location, one tackling him to the ground as he ran. They had arrived shortly after he'd started his ritual.

The humiliating outcome was his sudden arrest and subsequent booking, though no one was quite sure how to categorize what he'd done. He hadn't actually _hurt _anyone—technically, there wasn't any logical proof that he'd done anything except trespass on the stones. So they went with that.

Sauron looked up ruefully from the holding tank that was mostly littered with drunks from the previous evening as heels clicked against the long, narrow hallway. He was surprised to see someone get his message so quickly.

Wait. He knew that aura.

"Ronald Wolfe, it says! Fitting."

Sauron stood up and walked over to the bars. The woman was tall, about his height. Her pantsuit was black with blue accents. Cold diamonds glittered at her wrist and throat. She wore a pleased smirk on her face and a short, A-line haircut that was all business in the front and party in the back.

His surprise registered on his face at the lawyer in front of him.

"Thuringwethil."

"Teresa, actually." Thuring winked at him and stepped up close to the bars. "How long has it been, babe? I had no idea you were back."

"I haven't been for very long."

The vampire glanced him over appraisingly. It was an odd feeling to Sauron, being scrutinized by one of his former servants. Thuring had been a capable officer before the War of Wrath, and for the longest time he'd presumed her dead or hiding, since after their master's downfall he never saw her again.

"What are you doing here?"

"Surviving." Thuringwethil motioned to an officer to let him out. "And getting you out of here. I already handled everything. You're free to go."

Sauron stood back impatiently as the officer unlocked the cell door. He allowed Thuringwethil to lead him out to the lobby, where he was given back his passport and smart phone, and then to the sleek, black Mercedes Benz waiting outside.

"This car is nice," said Sauron, brushing his fingers lightly over the finish.

Both of them got in. "Try not to get a lot of fingerprints on it, babe," she said casually.

"Don't call me 'babe.'"

"God, hon, it's been so long." She turned the car on and pulled out of the lot. The sun lay on the horizon, already past most of the trees. Sauron could tell by the tinted windows and sunblock in the glove compartment that thousands of years' exposure to the sun didn't _quite _take away its glare. "I thought you were dead."

"I thought the same of you," Sauron replied. "Then I find out you're a blood-sucking lawyer. What's your accent?"

"American. That's where I got my law degree. Turns out all you need to do in the States to get into criminal justice is spin a more reliable lie than the other guy."

"So you know this world," Sauron pressed.

Thuring took a moment to glance away from the road and meet his eyes. "You sound like you need a guide," she ventured.

Sauron's expression grew guarded. Thuringwethil reached over, but Sauron jerked away from her hand.

"Don't touch me."

"Chill out," she snapped. "God, what is your problem?"

"How come I never saw you after the Battle?" He demanded. "I was still alive. You could have found me, or…"

"Or what? Who of us was strong enough to stop what happened? Why should we gather together at that time and risk being ripped up like a clump of weeds?"

Thuring could feel the tremor in her master's aura. He was weaker than he'd ever been, and he wasn't used to it. She could tell he'd never gotten the chance to adjust to things as they were now, not after she learned of his ruin. He'd spent the last few millennia as nothing more than a shadow in pain. He was raw, she realized. He was afraid. That's why he was so erratic now that a familiar face had come back into the picture.

Thuring shrugged and looked again at the road. "Anyway, what's the plan? I could bring you to New York with me. Oh, and I forgot to ask if you can drive."

"I can't," Sauron admitted.

"Where've you been staying?"

"I don't."

"So you've been on the streets?" she asked.

Sauron stared at the road ahead. "I woke up in Norway," he said flatly. "I learned the language, I learned how to navigate this new world. I spent my time finding out how to get to Stonehenge so I could call for allies."

"And that's when you got arrested."

"Correct."

"What has all this been for?"

Sauron didn't answer, and Thuring didn't press for a while as she drove. It felt to Sauron that his former servant wasn't explaining herself in an adequate manner. She was spending too much time questioning him, as if that was any use in reaching their ultimate goal.

"Do you have any money?"

"Hold on there, honey," Thuring interrupted, holding up a hand for silence. "First off, I've been educating myself as a lawyer for centuries, so yes. I own several firms you've probably seen on billboards. Second, what do you need it for?"

"Traveling. I need to find Gothmog."

"Oh, he's in California." Thuring stopped at a light and wrapped her arm around the back of the seat. "But he won't be happy to see you. He's really let himself go, doesn't want to admit to anyone that he's become a petty drug lord, but I've totally had to bail him out, like, six times now. He owes me."

"How many of us are still out there?"

"Not many." The light turned green. Thuring took a left and drove straight on through the night down long, rural lanes. "Too many were taken out by the Valar, and the rest dwindled over the centuries. There's only too few left. Truth is, there's not room for beings like us in the world anymore. The magic in the earth has changed."

"I noticed," Sauron replied, "but there are small places left, places where ancient energy is still stored so that one of us can use it. It's why I went to Stonehenge."

"And got your face all over CNN. Good move, there, boss."

At least she finally recognized his seniority, he mused wryly.

"I am gonna take you back to New York," Thuring decided. "I can integrate you into the firm, get you your licenses. Oh, God, I get to teach you how to drive…"

"Enough. I don't have time for that."

"You sound like you have a plan," said Thuring. "What's your better idea?"

At this Sauron seemed to hesitate. There was that caution in his eyes again, and it made her nervous. The lieutenant of Angband was not a coward, nor was he stupid. There was something very wrong with him.

"…Lord Sauron?"

"Precious…" he muttered, and glanced away.

The vampire wanted to ask. She held her tongue as almost an hour went by, when finally she had to stop and fill up her gas tank at a local convenient store. They were almost to London.

She leaned in her open driver's-side door as she waited for her tank to fill, watching Sauron sit in his brooding silence while the shadows showed starkly all the otherwise invisible lines on his face. _He's chosen a beautiful form_, she thought. The fluorescent glare from the convenient store lit up the flyaways in his hair like a burning halo.

"Hey, Lord Sauron."

Sauron blinked mutely in her direction.

She had to ask—the question was burning on her lips. "What brought you back? What's your plan?"

She assumed he wouldn't answer. Lord Sauron was not some loose-lipped sob story, nor did he believe in true confidantes beyond what he could control if something slipped. The one who knew the most about him was Gothmog, and Thuring doubted if that was because Sauron opened up to him. He had simply been around him the longest and knew more details of his past. So she wasn't prepared when he said the most hopeless thing she'd ever heard in her life, besides trying to get a well-paying job with a Liberal Arts degree in America: "We're freeing our master."

The pump _thunk_ed and shut off. Thuringwethil frowned and finished paying, then got in the car and said nothing for a full few minutes while she got back on the road. "My lord, you know he's…"

"Do not speak to me what you think you know."

"That's impossible," Thuring said gently. "I'm only telling you this as your friend, my lord."

"I do not have friends, captain. I have allies."

"Right, well, you're allying yourself with an uphill battle, then, if you ask me."

"I do not."

"It's not going to happen."

"My return was not going to happen until it did," Sauron hissed tightly. "Machines that fly weren't going to happen until someone made it so. I will do this with your help, or I will do it without you."

"I never said I was out," replied Thuring quickly. "I'm just saying that it'll be hard. You better have a good plan."

"I have a serviceable plan, if that's any consolation. It will require some of our old allies, if any are left."

"I have Gothmog on speed dial. I can track down just about everyone else I know of, no matter where they're hiding. Although, if we're lucky, they intend to answer your summons."

"I prefer to be proactive this time," Sauron said mildly.

Thuringwethil nodded. "I can see where that's preferred."

"If any of the opposition still remains in Arda, I can see them wishing for my demise. We must be faster than their plans. If we must go to California, let's do it this week. Let's find everyone we can and have it done. I will not fail him again."

"My lord…You didn't fail him."

Sauron didn't answer.

Thuringwethil sighed. "Let's get back to my hotel room. I'll book us a flight and have us to Cali in a couple days. First, we need to get you cleaned up."

"I look fine," Sauron protested flatly.

"_Honey_," Thuring replied with emphasis. "No."

Sauron bristled, and Thuring spent the silence reveling in the fact that she was getting to dress her master in whatever she told him was great fashion. He already seemed to have an eye for it himself, but a woman's touch on the matter never hurt.

The hotel clerk behind the lobby desk glanced at Thuring when she dragged Sauron back to her one bed, top-floor suite. Eyes tended to follow her trail, from her powerful calves to those sultry, soul-piercing black eyes, but Sauron noticed how comfortable she was in it, how little had changed in her personality since the heydays of Angband. The biggest difference, he decided, was her comfort in treating him like an equal, and how her manners had merely adapted to the new era.

Sauron was unimpressed. The suite was larger than he imagined, the gaudy pink and blue wallpaper (and matching bedspread) overshadowed by a large sitting area and a view of the gardens, but part of him remembered a flash of palace decorated in silver and glass, the Numenorian king striding at his side down bright hallways decked with hand-woven tapestries and treasure. Thuringwethil took off her heels and left them by the door.

"You can have the bed, master. I'll take the couch."

"Thank you."

The vampire glanced at him. She hadn't heard anything like thanks from his lips and didn't particularly expect to. Sauron pretended not to notice.

"Do you want the staff to bring you anything?"

Sauron shook his head and sat down on the bed, slowly unwinding his scarf. "I do have a request, though."

"Anything."

He let the scarf hang loosely about his neck as he pulled his phone from his pocket. "Show me how to effectively use this thing."

Thuring sat down next to him and took it from his hands. Sauron was subdued, watching her fingers play over the touch screen as she went over apps and updates and internet, calls and Skype.

"It's not hard, really," she was saying. "I'm sure you've figured half of this stuff out yourself. Did you ask anyone else how to use it?"

"Just a man in Grateley."

"Did he know?"

"No. The older population seems to have as little understanding of it as I. The Atani don't call any of it magic, don't even seem to know that Eru exists. It has something to do with radio waves and things no one can see. They've explored science far more than either of us could have guessed."

"Are you waxing poetic on me, sir?"

"What I'm saying," said Sauron, "is that you need to tell me what they're capable of as we proceed. I don't know this world."

Thuringwethil nodded. "Of course, sir."

Sauron looked over her shoulder as she showed him how to use passwords and set backgrounds. "Do you think they could reach him?"

"What?"

"Our lord. Do you think radio waves could transmit messages to the Void if we knew where to look?"

She frowned. "What happened to you?"

Sauron stood up and took his phone back. "Book us a flight to Cali," he ordered, all mildness gone.

"You can do it from yours. Give it back."

Sauron stood motionless.

Thuringwethil sighed. "Forgive me, sir. I can book us from your phone if you'll hand it back."

He did so icily and watched as she did it, memorizing the card numbers she typed over her shoulder. She handed it back and walked over to the couch. "Good night, my lord."

Sauron pulled the curtains closed as the sky began to lighten the world around them. He sat on the bed for a long time before finally kicking off his shoes and draping his scarf across the headboard. A long, jagged scar arced across his throat in plain sight without it. It had been there since he came back; he just hadn't noticed it in the hospital when he was still too struck by what the rest of him looked like.

They were going to California tomorrow. Someone else had survived, and she'd mentioned others. How many in his lord's service had survived the Third Age? How many walked unseen among the Atani?

Tomorrow night they would find out. He would show them he had strength left.


	4. Chapter 4 - A Journey in the Night

Sauron was not a fan of planes.

Oh, he liked flying. Many forms he took over the years were of winged creatures, vampiric or reptilian, as he soared over battlefields and in relaying messages to Angband from his conquered outposts. But planes were not flying. He did not like the feeling of being lifted up like a helpless animal in eagle claws. Objectively, planes were further proof of Atani ingenuity and grit worthy of any former expectations. Subjectively, they were too close to Manwe's territory for his liking, if ever Manwe still looked upon Arda.

Besides, not being in control of his situation was not a feeling Sauron enjoyed.

Thuring sat next to him in the aisle seat and let him look out over the Atlantic. "We're fine," she coaxed.

The Atlantic was the largest body of water he'd seen in millennia. He wasn't going to let one of his servants treat him like a child just because he couldn't stop looking at it.

"I know we're fine," he snapped.

The waves were far below them, but he didn't feel secure. Something down there knew he was there. He could feel their presence just as they felt his.

"I don't think we're al—"

The plane hit a little turbulence. Immediately, several children started crying, much to the chagrin or sympathy of the other passengers. A few heartbeats later, the intercom crackled to life:

"Ladies and gentlemen, we've encountered some unexpected winds this evening. Please remain in your seats until we've past it."

The lights to buckle up came on. Thuring and Sauron glanced at each other.

"I told you," he said flatly.

Thuring kicked his foot. "We need to get off."

Storm clouds were brewing all around them. Sauron watched the agitated, dark water below them until the forming clouds hemmed them into a wall of fog. "You want…to go out there. How many hours are we from America?"

"We can fly it."

The plane lurched again. Even the calm passengers were getting worry lines chiseled into their faces.

"The Valar will not strike an entire Atani plane down for one Maia and a vampire. This is a scare tactic."

"What if it's not the Valar?" Thuring pressed urgently.

Lightning flashed elsewhere in the clouds. The stewardess looked nervous, passing between the cabins for news while another steward tried to keep people in their seats. Something was wrong with the plane.

"Then who else _is it_?"

The intercom crackled with static. "Ssssauron…" whispered a sing-song voice.

Sauron knew that voice. The crying grew louder, as did the _shush_-ing and rustling around him. People were asking the steward what was going on. They wanted to know why they were losing altitude.

They knew. They were all trapped in here with him, unable to escape. They could only fall. Falling was the only way out. Falling from a tower, from an island, from the light—it was the only way out.

Sauron had only one way out.

He unbuckled himself and leapt over Thuring for the bathroom. He shoved past the steward. His nails bit into the man's shirt and he fell back into a woman seated in the aisle. Thuring followed him.

Sauron pulled open the door. He was going to get out of here, now. Thuring grabbed his wrist.

"Sauron."

Sauron whirled toward her. "Don't touch me!" he barked.

"Sir! Losing cabin pressure in here would kill everyone on board. The Atani don't have our strength!"

"Then let them die!"

"_Sir_," Thuring pleaded, "if we kill them, you openly declare yourself the Enemy once again. I thought you couldn't go against the Valar in your weakened state! _Listen to reason._ You can buy yourself time if they think you're not a threat."

"I've played that game before, Thuringwethil. They will not listen to it again."

"_You don't know that_," she argued. "We can help ourselves by acting strategically. _Think _about it—_this_ is your strength."

Sauron thought. The plane was in poor shape, judging from the staff's reactions. Something had hit it, or something failed. Atani were helpless, scared creatures who would mishandle anything he left to them. He had Thuringwethil. If he couldn't make escaping the plane a viable option, then he had to land it. Otherwise, Osse would simply rip it apart like a sardine can.

"I have an idea." He jerked his arm away and walked back toward the front of the plane.

As he stalked down the aisle, he spread his hands at his sides, exhaling his will outward toward the passengers. Everyone fell still. Thuringwethil followed him to the pilot's cabin unmolested, where the two pilots were still trying desperately to save them.

The copilot couldn't spare a moment for them, but he noticed their presence. "Go back to your seats!"

Sauron braced himself as the plane tilted further. "Land the plane," he commanded, willing them to ignore him.

He and Thuringwethil glanced at each other and pushed their wills out into the airspace around the plane with words of power. The wind roared around them, and the ocean grew closer. Sauron tightened his knuckles on the back of the pilot's chair as their angle slackened, and the water rose to greet them.

Wind and rain and the jolt of a lifetime pitched Sauron forward into the windshield. Loud whooshes of air exploded around the plane as the emergency floatations expanded. The Atani crew were alive.

Sauron groaned as he was jerked to his feet by Thuringwethil. "We have to hurry!"

The pilots and stewardess stared in shock as the man who should've been dead from impact got to his feet and stumbled after the lawyer.

With Sauron helping the pilots control the forces around the plane, he'd managed to gain a bargaining chip in case the Valar wanted to stake him. Now came the hard part.

Osse didn't give a shit about bargaining chips.

That psychopathic little frog face wanted to hurt Sauron because he hated him, pure and simple. One point in history had seen Osse's almost allegiance to Lord Melkor, and he'd been so wishy-washy and difficult to control that Sauron was glad they never tried a second time. There was no telling what the maniac was going to do. He didn't know why the Valar had allowed someone this unstable to stay behind.

Sauron opened the emergency hatch on the top of the airliner and climbed out with Thuringwethil. She was in a suit again, though this one was black and white like her stark makeup. Dark, endless ocean surrounded them, and heavy rain fell on their heads.

"Think we should make a break for it—?"

A booming, animalistic roar exploded to their left. A great shadow rose from the water, spreading its wave arms like wings in their direction. Sauron recognized the Valarian word for "die" amidst the thunder.

Thuring leapt straight into the air in the form of a large bat, but the force of the wind hurled Sauron off the plane.

He sank down into blackness.

For a few terrifying moments, the world kept spinning. Water threatened to take him once again, and Sauron wished he had time to flee Numenor, as the hand of Eru came down swiftly in judgment.

He approached Melkor's throne cautiously.

"My lord," he whispered helplessly.

"Come closer…" His master's voice was full of velvet and dark smoke. If not for the undertone of danger in his voice, Sauron would have loved to listen to him further.

Sauron practically crawled to his feet. His forehead brushed the surface of the dais, his fingers reaching out to touch the large, black boot before his face. "Forgive me."

A swift kick as Melkor stood up. Sauron recoiled, shielding his face as he lay on his back. Somewhere in the dark, he heard a murmur of voices rise up like a tidal wave of shame.

"FORGIVE YOU?" Melkor thundered. "FORGIVE YOU FOR THE TREASON YOU HAVE WROUGHT UPON ME?"

Melkor grabbed his hair and lifted him up, higher from the ground than Sauron's toes could reach until they were face to face. "Look at my crown, Lieutenant," he spat. "Should I forgive you for allowing someone to steal that which your master cursed himself to get?!"

He thrust his burnt hand into Sauron's face, a rare moment when Melkor brought attention to his own disfigurement. Sauron's breathing grew faster, more panicked. The Vala's grip on his hair hurt. There were eyes watching them. Melkor was about to teach him a lesson, and he knew it wasn't going to end well.

Melkor dropped him and turned to face the dark throne room. "Servants of Morgoth!" he cried. "What say you to forgiving this wretch for allowing one Silmaril to be stolen from the brow of your master?"

There was a dull roar in Sauron's ears as he lifted his head from the dais. He glanced at his master—his tall, glorious master, no less glorious in this terrifying mood—standing with his back to Sauron at the edge of the lighted dais, his hands stretched out to invite all the crowd to witness in Sauron's humiliation. Sauron saw shapes in the shadows, too many of them to count, of all different shapes and sizes. He'd focused so heavily on the throne when he walked in shame to the front of the room that he just then noticed the enormity of the event.

Fires suddenly blazed in the four corners of the room, and Sauron saw with dread and shame that much of the whole fortress, including those who knew him personally, were present to watch this. Gothmog and Thuringwethil stood with Melkor's other officers—Gothmog looked away, his iron stomach not iron enough to meet his comrade's eyes. Thuringwethil held Sauron's gaze without blinking.

Sauron could not let them both see him like this. He could not allow the orcs he demanded respect and fear from to remember this moment as a day when Sauron's strength failed. Slowly, he found the courage to stand.

Melkor sensed something happening as the crowd grew less enthusiastic, their eyes turning from master to servant. Melkor spun around.

"My lord, I have failed you. I will not ask for thy forgiveness. I ask for a moment to speak."

Melkor's eyes roved over Sauron, suddenly standing tall and placid even in his fear, his golden eyes harder than mithril. Was it defiance? No…it was order. Sauron, ever his faithful, was trying to preserve the hierarchy against an unruly rabble. Officers could not be touched or reprimanded, or they lost the invincibility in the eyes of their soldiers.

And suddenly it was Melkor's turn to salvage the situation.

Melkor padded slowly up to Sauron, locking hateful silver eyes with placid, impenetrable gold. "Speak quickly, Lieutenant."

"It is remembered by the stars that Huan would meet death only by the greatest wolf that ever walked the world," he began. "By fate, it is decreed. So far we have seen that no prophesy, when backed by the Valar, has failed to go awry.

"This you all know! That when I stepped forth from my gates at Tol-en-Gaurhoth, it was not in cowardice! That I _knew _I would be defeated! That the presence of Huan prevented any sure action against the witch and her dog, and that, in an attempt to stay them longer or twist such fate, I took a form I believed would qualify as the greatest wolf. My crime, therefore, was in playing a game where the cards were stacked against me. The Valar have woven a net thick and wide, and it has taken all of us to cut ourselves loose from their tyrannical over-simplification."

Sauron turned to Melkor. "I will take any punishment, my lord. I have failed in cutting a piece of the net they have thrown over us, and thereby must pay for the crimes of the elf witch that I failed to prevent. All my glory and service are yours, and your rage mine. The Quendi will feel my wrath for this."

He knelt before him. Melkor touched Sauron's black hair, knowing that underneath there lay a loyal Mairon still devoted to him that would not be dissuaded from his service no matter what was done to him. He knew that the cost for defeat would have to serve two purposes—showing the lesser creatures that failure was not an option, yet somehow retain Sauron's dignity so that he may still command.

Sauron looked up into Melkor's eyes once more—eyes that said he could take it, whatever it was, but eyes that said he didn't want to.

Melkor's hand released his hair and slid slowly down the side of Sauron's face. "I really can't replace you," he whispered down. And then he snapped Sauron's neck.

Sauron twitched on the ground for a moment, feeling his nerves scream in agony. Almost immediately, Melkor sliced his hand through the air, and shadows and chains coiled around his servant's limbs like snakes.

Melkor turned and faced the crowd. "_THE VALAR ARE OUR ENEMY_!" He declared venomously. "_IT IS VICTORY OR DEATH FOR US ALL_! NONE WILL ESCAPE THEM, AND NO PROPHESY IS AN EXCUSE FOR FAILURE." He whipped around, his large, black coat whipping his ankles, and pointed an accusatory finger at Sauron. "You have not committed treason, which is the only reason you're not rent from form and sent shamefully into the world, but in keeping your form, you will know pain in it. You will know that to come back fruitless is as much a blow to me as desertion!"

Sauron was immediately yanked back several yards toward the wall. Melkor stalked after him, and Sauron trembled, knowing that whatever was coming next was going to hurt.

Melkor snatched a knife from his belt and sliced through Sauron's robes. "Here lies one of the greatest among you! A leader, a soldier, a Maiar!" He set the knife under Sauron's crooked neck. "When he recovers, he has the mentor of pain at his back. It tempers us, makes us stronger. Any servant that runs will find no more greeting at his home than this." He jabbed the knife into Sauron's belly, twisting it as he did so.

Sauron couldn't scream. He was mostly numb from the neck down. That was why Melkor had snapped it first, surely, to maintain the look of stoic officer while showing the crowd the manner of pain he would show them. Ironic, Sauron thought, that this was his master's version of _mercy_.

But all he could think amidst the pain and numbness was all the failures his past and future had done.

Sauron knew how the rest of the public torture went. He remembered he got some revenge on elves several times after that public display, how he tried to give Melkor all the apologies for deserting him again when he twisted the religion of the Numenorians, his greatest prank. Sauron found himself wondering why he kept thinking of those Atani, and realized as he found himself underwater once again that he still had so much meaning attached to it.

It was the first time he had lived among humans, and here he was again, among humans. Close proximity to the ocean didn't seem to help, either.

It was also the last time he'd had a real body.

And now that body was drowning. Sauron scrabbled for the surface, reaching once again for the starlight he hated so much. His lungs felt like a blazing furnace without enough oxygen, starting to sputter. The water roiled and rocked him as he got closer, its wild currents no doubt aided by an enemy that was waiting for him.

No, not waiting. Two disembodied eyes blinked in front of his face in the water, and then a Cheshire smirk appeared. Sauron jerked back and released the rest of his air.

The face of a wild, teenage boy accompanied and equally teenage body holding a trident. "Hey, _Sauron_…been a long time, hasn't it?"

He jabbed Sauron in the gut with the butt of the trident. Sauron, thinking quickly, grabbed the handle and jerked it away from him.

"Hey!"

Sauron pointed down and blasted himself to the surface with the trident.

Osse followed Sauron as he gasped in air. "Gimme that back!" he roared.

"Fuck you, kid."

Osse's face turned an alien, coral shade of green. The waves grew restless. It was still raining. "YOU WILL GIVE IT BACK."

Sauron pulled the trident behind his back. "You see that plane back there, Osse? The one I just saved after you directly interfered with it to get to me? You think Uinen or Ulmo will be happy about that?"

"Do you think Ulmo will be happy about YOU?"

"Absolutely not," Sauron said. "But I have not done anything wrong. I announced my presence, and that was all. I'm making a new life, Osse. I've turned over a new leaf."

"Yeah, right!"

A wave crashed down on Sauron's head. He sputtered, returning to the surface. "A-And trying to drown me in the process is not going to win you any favors from me!"

"Winning favors from a coward and a weakling doesn't mean anything," Osse countered imperiously.

Sauron felt repressed rage bubble to the surface. He blinked rapidly, his knuckles turning white around the trident. "Weak," he said. He whispered a word and rose above the water, his aura spreading dark, leathery wings from his back. "Weak," he repeated, staring down at Osse. He snapped the trident in half.

Osse roared. Sauron screeched a curse that turned into a bolt of dark magick that took the prongs of Osse's trident straight into his chest. Osse fell back into the water and sank.

Sauron was not naive enough to think him dead. He rose further, shifting into a bat, and joined Thuringwethil high above. "We should have just flown like this in the first place."

Thuringwethil hadn't wanted to attract attention, but she acknowledged his point with a nod and flew west, leading him to the New World. Together they flew across the ocean with the morning beginning to rise at their backs.


End file.
